


A Time to Rest

by Jay_Bird23



Series: How to Win a War [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: I truly believe John needs to vent and rest, I'm naming Dog in this story, Insomnia, Mentions of past abuse, Nightmare mention, PTSD, Swearing, This is where it'll happen, blood mention, graphic description of illness, medical mention, medication mentions, mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_Bird23/pseuds/Jay_Bird23
Summary: Takes place after John Wick 3.John has been through a lot and it's finally starting to catch up to him. He's hurt, he's tired, and he's practically starving. With the war with the High Table looming over head, John's sure he needs to rest and recover even a little bit to be on his A game for it. Enter the Bowery King.With his ear to the street, the King has found a place for him to rest and heal up safely. With no other offers of help, or any options in general, John goes. Turns out, this person is nothing like what he was expecting.(This is the first of a two part story. )





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wassup

It feels like the Bowery King sent him on an impossible mission. Not that John would put it past him considering how half of New York thinks the man is crazy. Who knows, maybe he is, but that would also make John crazy considering how he’s actually following the King’s instructions. Adding that to the list of things John has done in the past would probably make him a certified lunatic, but John would like to think he’s sane. Wouldn’t anyone. Ignoring the fact he hasn’t had a proper shower (or any shower for that matter) or a decent meal in a month, John would say he’s pretty down to earth. 

Take right now for example. John knows someone has been tailing him through the bookstore for the past few hours. He knows there are at least three people with the closest one and they all have small arms with them. There’s not a doubt in his mind he can take them all if he needs to, he would just prefer not to. Taking into account his lack of proper medical care and need of a proper meal, an unneeded fight would only add to the ache in his bones and draw unwanted attention to himself. Not that being out in the open like this isn’t attention-grabbing it itself, but most people don’t know who he is. 

That being said, one is probably wondering why John Wick, the man with the fifteen million dollar bounty on his head, is acting like he’s aimlessly wandering through a bookstore in broad daylight. Well, that’s because the Bowery King told him to. 

Rumor has it, there’s someone out there who’s just as dangerous as any assassin under the Table with no alliance to anyone. No one knows if the rumor is true, but dozens if not hundreds of people have tried to prove it one way or the other. Even with all that manpower put to the task, no one has any firm answers. No one except the Bowery King. Somehow he managed to contact this person earlier in the week and set up a place for John to crash. Maybe literally given his status, but he’s still on edge. There isn’t a soul in the world that knows what this person looks like, behaves like, fights like, or if this person is just acting like the person he’s looking for. All John knows is that the Bowery King said it was OK and that the person, Ghost if John remembers correctly, said to meet at this bookstore sometime in the afternoon. 

John got here at twelve. It’s almost three now. 

His follower has gotten bolder in the past hour, switching tactics from following from two rows away to standing in the same aisle. John pretends to read the back of a dumb sy-fy novel with an over sexualized woman on the cover as his tail holds a vampire novel. He’s not even attempting to act like he’s not following John and, in fact, he’s staring right at him. John doesn’t know where the other three went and it’s putting him on edge farther than he already is, but he decides to take care of this one first. Since this is a local bookstore, there aren’t any security cameras. All he has to do is get out of view and keep things quiet. Easy done. 

John sets the book back on the shelf and makes direct eye contact with his tail and the tail starts. John almost gets annoyed at the action. What’s the point of being obvious if you get scared when someone spots you? No matter. He turns down an empty aisle at random and heads down, keeping his attention forward as he hears the book being slammed down as his tail follows him. A small knife is slid from his coat sleeve and he stops in the middle of the aisle, still not turning around as he waits for his follower to make the first attack. He needs this to end quick. He doesn’t know when the Ghost will make itself known and he doesn’t want to be in the middle of a fight when it happens. 

Thirty seconds go by before John turns to face the still empty aisle. A hint of curiosity prods the back of his mind and he almost acts upon it. However, he keeps himself still in case it’s a surprise attack. There’s no way he’s going to walk right into a trap when he’s this sore. It’ll only add more stress to the ache in his fractured bones and bruised organs. 

A book is pulled from the shelf behind him and he whirls, startling an older teenager into dropping his book. John swears under his breath and hides his knife behind his back, mumbling a quick apology and slipping the knife back into place in his sleeve. The teen offers a hesitant smile and retrieves his book from the ground before turning and hurrying down the aisle and sliding past him, grabbing another book from a shelf where a new person browses. The new appearance startles John, but he keeps his composure as the teen turns the corner and disappears from the section. 

“There are children here, Mr. Wick,” the new person says, making a selection and scanning the back cover. “You shouldn’t play with weapons around children.”

The casualness in their tone sets John on edge and he reaches for his knife again. “Who are you?” 

A faint crease forms between the new person’s eyebrows as they read. “The Bowery King didn’t tell you about me?” they say, adding the book to the eight already stacked on their arm. “I figured he would have. I mean, obviously he had otherwise you wouldn’t have been here since noon wandering around like an idiot.” 

John tenses harsher and the bruises on his ribs scream. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he reminds coldly. He needs them to say it before he trusts them. Trick of the trade and just a good thing to keep in mind at all times. “Who are you?” 

The new person makes and holds eye contact with John, heavy bags under their tired eyes. If John had to venture a guess, he would say that this person rolled out of bed right before they turned up here. In fact he doesn’t really feel the need to guess very far since they’re still in their red, plaid pajama pants and dark blue, long sleeved T-shirt. The shirt puts John on edge even further since he can’t see what’s under it, meaning they could be hiding any number of weapons and John could be none the wiser. 

He pulls the knife from his sleeve again and lets the blade gleam in the light. The person rolls their eyes at the display. “Do we need to have another conversation about children, John?” they ask tiredly. “I’m the one B.K. sent you to see. Fuck, what do they call me out there? Ghost? Phantom Menace? No that’s a movie. Night Terror? Something like that, right? Ah, who gives a fuck? I never liked the name anyway. Just call me K.” 

John doesn’t trust K, but they knew all the details of the meeting set up by the Bowery King. Albeit, they did just call him B.K. out loud which is a bit childish, but John guesses that flipancy is their main characteristic. He almost relaxes had another part of him not scream about the tails he has yet to confront. He’s tense again and his grip on his knife tightens. 

K rolls their eyes again and waves a dismissive hand as their eyes scan the shelves once again. “You’re a bit late on that front, my friend,” they say, squinting at a book and crossing the floor towards John. John lifts the knife in warning and K ignores him in favor of grabbing a book by his left elbow. The uncaring is unsettling. “I took care of your problem a few minutes ago,” they inform in the same loose tone they used before as they read the blurb on the back of the book. Then they go silent for a second before frowning in disgust and setting the book back on the shelf. “Hideous.”

John raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

K mimics the eyebrow and looks away from the shelf in confusion. “What?” 

A new emotion bubbles in John’s core and he chews his lip to keep it from boiling over. He’s white knuckling his knife to keep from using it and he contemplates stabbing a book just to relieve some of his tension. “What were you saying about my problem?”

The meaning of their eyebrow switches from confusion to curiosity. “Your following problem or your knife problem?” they asks. “Cause I’m pretty sure you still have a knife problem.” 

He almost stabs them. In fact, it takes all he has to keep his arm from twitching in anticipation to do so. There’s no way this. . .Shit they don’t look any older than twenty. There’s no way this KID is the Ghost of legend the Bowery King sent him to meet. The only reason he’s not either stabbing this person or leaving is the way they knew everything that was supposed to happen. The place, the time-frame, the Bowery King himself, the fact that John’s been here for three hours. It all fits. The personality doesn’t, which is probably a trick in itself. The Ghost he was told about is dangerous, invisible, and holds no loyalty to any side. This kid, K, doesn’t give the impression of being dangerous. He can’t be the judge of whether or not they’re loyal to anyone yet, and they way they just turned up out of nowhere could be attested to their invisibility. To sum up, this kid is too odd for him to believe they’re truly the Ghost. 

K lets his silence linger before shrugging and moving back to the opposite end of the aisle. “There’s a lovely reading group going on over in the romance novel section,” they say, sliding around the corner and dragging a book from the end of the shelf. “Check it out. Maybe you’ll like what they’re reading. You seem like a romantic.” 

And they’re gone. John knows it could be a trap, but the hinting in their tone throws him off. He conceals his blade but doesn’t put it away as he too slides from the aisle and takes the bait. Since he’s made countless laps around the store in preparation for the meeting, it doesn’t take John long to reach the romance section. As promised, four men, THE four men, sit in a loose square shape in the aisle, leaving just enough space for someone to walk around them should the need arise. None of the tails so much as stir when John reaches them, all focused on a book propped open in their lap. Their stillness is alarming. 

John takes a step into the aisle and still receives no response. Further, further, further still until he’s standing right over one of the tails. Nothing. Not even a change in breathing to show they know he’s there. Now that he’s this close, he can see that this man isn’t breathing. His attention moves to the man beside him and proves that he, too, isn’t breathing. None of them are. He doesn’t startle like he feels he should. K did say they took care of their problem and it was pretty obvious how it was going to get solved. 

He’s careful not to touch the bodies as he examines them, spotting the same ugly bruising on each of their necks to determine their cause of death. How though? That’s the question. How did they manage to break the necks of four men without being seen by anyone in a small enclosed location, then have enough time to haul and prop their bodies without being seen? 

Once he’s seen all he’s need to, John exits the section and returns to where K left him. They’re facing away from him when he finds the correct aisle, adding yet another book to the stack they cradle on their arm. He contemplates getting them a cart or a basket or something that would help take the weight, but the thought goes out the window when he notes how their arm doesn’t even tremble under the combined weight. They don’t even fake the strain. John makes the mental note. They’re stronger than they look. 

“Romance not your thing?” K teases when he moves in front of them. “I thought you would have browsed a bit longer. Did the book club put you off or something?” 

There. Right there. John felt it. Not danger per say since he knows in his heart of hearts he can kill K if he needs to. No, danger would be too obvious for this alleged Ghost. Rumors do say they are dangerous, but that’s not what’s happening here. An offness he can’t place. A wrongess that would throw anyone off if they weren’t expecting it. However, John knew the Ghost rumors long before he would have been able to confirm if they were true, so he was expecting something he could use to solidify whether or not it’s them. That was all he needed. 

He fully conceals his knife back in his sleeve holster and lets himself relax if only to relieve his pain. There’s been no time to recover despite the two days he spent in the Bowery King’s most recent hideaway and each attempt to sleep was proven futile. Somehow he always woke up more exhausted than when he went to sleep and the rock hard cot he was told to sleep on didn’t help him in any way. That discomfort added to the scratchy, ‘inconspicuous’ clothes the King told him to wear and the ten hour train ride to Virginia means John is close to blacking out. Spite and determination have kept him moving for this long, but he’s rapidly running out of both. 

He wants to crash. Needs to. The Bowery King told him it’s safe to do so at Ghost’s -- K’s, he corrects himself -- place. Where is it? What makes it so safe? Who else knows about it? All of these are questions John wants to, and probably should, ask before he even considers going down for any amount of time. But the past month’s activities are finally starting to catch up with him and he’s tired. Exhausted to the bone. He doesn’t want to do anything. He needs--

“I heard you had a dog with you?” 

The return of K’s neutral tone startles John from his trail of thoughts and back to alertness. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing in the aisle but his muscles scream as if it were an eternity. Did he black out? 

“Is he good with other dogs?” K continues as John refocuses. “Cause I have two and if it’s a problem, this isn’t going to work.” 

John blinks heavily in attempt to rid his body of the exhaustion he’s plagued with. It’s too bad he’s worn that miracle to its end and now it doesn’t work anymore. “He not violent,” he grumbles. “He’ll be fine with other dogs.” 

K raises an eyebrow and gives John a once over without moving their head. If they have anything to say they keep it to themself, something that John appreciates given the loose lips of everyone else around him. “Good,” they say, grabbing another book at random before turning to the front of the store. “My car’s in the lot. Black bug. Doors are unlocked.” 

No other words are exchanged as they separate and move along on their own missions. John’s first assignment is to get Dog from the alley behind the store. It doesn’t take more than a minute for John to reach said alley and is immediately attacked upon arrival. Luckily he knows the tongue and slobber that greets him in the alleyway, but it doesn’t make it any less gross. “Good Dog,” he says. “Good Dog. Let’s go.” 

As promised, a dusty black Beetle sits in a spot under the shade of a small tree in the bookstore’s parking lot, its handle giving easily as he pulls it and opens the door. The inside doesn’t smell new, but it’s clean enough to be. The only thing that would possibly let anyone know that someone owns this car is the unceremonious pile of books that covers the back seat. Looking at how much K clearly enjoys their books, John takes a minute to clear a spot before letting Dog in. 

K returns to the car not long after John sets himself in, opening the small trunk and setting their new books in there rather than in the pile with the others. After they close the trunk, K climbs in the drivers’ seat and starts the engine with a flourish. “You can sleep if you want,” they say, putting the car in reverse and dragging their seatbelt on as the car rolls. “We’ve got about forty-five minutes ahead of us and you look like Death shat you on the carpet.” 

John doesn’t bother with a response.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in a long time, John wakes up rested. Not well-rested, but more rested than when he went to sleep. If he ignored the way his body still ached and throbbed with the wounds he treated in a hurry -- if he treated them at all -- he could possibly say he’s having a good day. 

But then a dog barks and his almost calm disappears. He’s on his feet in an instant and out the door just as quick, ignoring the pain his body brings with the movement. He only stops when he reaches the empty living room and spots a flash of gray through the window, followed closely by a flash of black and a third flash of white. John freezes mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do. There’s no panic in the barks like he originally thought and the playful scuffle for the furry, purple mass on the ground only confirms his suspicions. His dog is happy. 

His body relaxes again and he almost drops to the floor when it does, barely able to catch himself from dropping uncontrollably before slowly lowering himself to a sit. The sun is low in the sky as he watches the dogs play in the yard, adding to the potential relaxation the whole area is supposed to bring. K’s house sits in the middle of nowhere on a little less than sixty acres of land, bringing a solitude John hasn’t known since moving to the city. He can’t say he feels fully secure with the isolation since the open space also makes him feel exposed. However, he’s not above admitting he slept decently in the silence last night. 

The back door opens and three short shadows scramble over each other trying to get inside. Dog wins out and he’s soon slobbering excitedly on John. John greets him with less than half of Dog’s enthusiasm and gently pushes him away. As much as he loves his dog, his body is still riddled with pain and half-fixed injuries. 

“Oh good, you’re not dead.” 

John almost starts had he not remembered the reason he’s in isolation in the first place. He manages to peel his dog away from himself and looks up at K as they linger in the doorway, an amused gleam in their eyes as their dogs pant happily beside their legs. “You’ve been sleep for almost twenty hours. I thought you finally kicked it.” 

Twenty hours. John almost passes out again. How could he have fallen asleep for twenty hours in a stranger’s house while there’s still an open contract on his head? He knew he was tired, he just didn’t know that exhaustion would bring this much sloppiness. 

K takes his silence and shrugs it off. “Take a shower.” Not a question and barely an instruction. What is that tone? “Remember that Death’s shit thing? I wasn’t exaggerating. Please shower. Last door on the left. I’ll make food.” 

As much as he hates to admit it -- and he’ll take it to his grave before he does -- John longs for a shower. He hasn’t had one since Santino destroyed his house and he’s hated every day since. His wounds are probably starting to get infected, his skin is grimy with blood and sweat and whatever else happened in the past weeks, and more than anything, he feels it. He just never had an opportunity to relax or take care of some basic human hygiene. He almost felt like crying when K gave him a toothbrush last night. While he admits brushing teeth is nowhere close to a shower, he only had enough strength to do that much. 

Not wanting to let on to his eagerness for the relief the shower is sure to bring, John takes his time in moving Dog away and pulling himself to his feet. He makes and holds K’s gaze and nods once in appreciation, then turns and disappears down the hall. After locking the bathroom door behind himself and waiting for any tell-tale sounds of immediate attack, John takes a shower. 

He scrubs his skin raw and watches the dirty water swirl down the drain, taking a lot of stress from his shoulders as it disappears into the blackness. He washes more times than he can keep up with, then washes his hair twice, then simply allows the hot water to work the lesser knots from his muscles. Thank God K has good water pressure. He stands under the torrent until the water goes cold before turning off the tap and stepping out. It takes him a moment to find the linen cabinet and he enjoys the towel’s softness on his skin as he dries himself off. After making sure he’s at least eighty percent dry, John wraps the towel around his waist and leaves the bathroom. 

“Go straight to your room,” K calls from somewhere else in the house. “I don’t want to see your nakedness. I stocked up on clothes that should fit you and there’s plenty of band-aids if you need them. Go crazy.” 

John does as told, reemerging a few minutes later in a fresh pair of boxers and a plain, black T-shirt. Surprisingly, his stitches took the potential abuse well despite how badly they were done, so he sticks a couple, large band-aids on them and calls it good. The house is strangely silent when he emerges and is almost put on edge. He’s only calmed when Dog trots over and starts wagging his tail happily at his feet. John’s glad to know that through everything, he’ll always have Dog. He finishes his journey and finds K at the kitchen table, left hand twirling a fork in a plate of spaghetti while their right hand flips the page of a book being pinned to the table. They don’t even look up when John walks in, but the dogs at their feet do. The white one on the left gives a low, warning growl as John crosses the kitchen threshold and K shushes it quickly before finally lifting their attention away from the pages. “Oh. Hey. Food’s done.” 

K lifts their fork in the direction of the stove, where a decent sized pot of spaghetti sits on a ‘keep warm’ burner. In an act of rebellion, his stomach growls loudly and K chews on the inside of their cheek, their eyes widening and shining in amusement while keeping themself in check. John narrows his eyes dangerously and K coughs and turns their attention to their book. “Plates are in the dishwasher,” they say quickly. “Help yourself.” 

John doesn’t allow himself to feel proud of wiping the growing smirk off the kid’s face. He’s the Baba Yaga, the Boogeyman, and this kid doesn’t seem dangerous in any matter of the word. Off-putting, maybe. Strange, definitely. But John knows if he wants to, or even just has the passing thought, he could kill them without any effort. He doesn’t know if he wants to yet, but all that matters is he knows he can. So he softens his glare a fraction and turns to the stove to make his plate. 

Dog remains at his side, as per usual, throughout the entire process, licking his slobbery chops in anticipation for any loose noodles that may hit the ground. He lets out a quiet whine after a ten second staring contest with John and John huffs through his nose. He takes a moment to glance over at K, who keeps their face directed toward their book, then drops a forkful of spaghetti in front of Dog. K’s dogs, who John assumes have no names either, lift their head in eager curiosity as Dog happily laps up his treat. John passes another glance to K before taking a half step to the right and dropping two more forks of pasta. Each dog leaps to their feet and scramble to their food and John fights a smile. He’s always had a soft spot for dogs and more than likely always will. 

John takes one more glance at K, who now smiles openly at the pages of their book despite them not changing position. It’s not embarrassment that heats up John’s core at the sight, but a deep annoyance. He doesn’t want them to fear him, that’s not his objective. He just doesn’t want them to think he’s getting soft in his age. And he’s not. Despite his aches and soreness and the headache that comes from not sleeping properly in a month, John knows what he’s capable of. 

That isn’t to say he knows what K is capable of. The kid is still an anomaly to him and he knows he should be cautious around them. He knows most assassins uses aloofness as a way of blending into society before taking a Mark, so he’s used to the attitude. What’s off-putting is how genuine it is. Like it’s their natural behavior. Like they’re no danger to anyone or anything whatsoever no matter how hard they could try. The Ghost of legend is said to be dangerous without trying. As far as he can tell, this kid isn’t that, bookstore incident aside. 

“Parmesan cheese is in the fridge if you use that sort of thing,” K informs, still without lifting their attention from their book. “If not, then you can sit at the table, I don’t bite.” They snort in amusement, though John doesn’t know the cause. “Well, I do. But rough stuff is extra.” There it is. 

John snatches his plate from the counter and nearly sends it flying from his fingers with his force. K coughs again and sticks a forkful of spaghetti in their mouth. It’s the first bite John’s seen them take since he’s gotten in the kitchen. Have they eaten at all? That plate doesn’t look touched. 

Ignoring the joke made at his expense, John limps over to the table and sits in the chair across from K, Dog taking his spot between his feet as K’s dogs take their spots near K. They lapse into a silence John doesn’t know if he likes as he inhales his food. To their credit, K doesn’t say anything about John’s appetite or the fact that he gets up for two more plates after he finishes his first. John, however, takes a moment between breaths and bites to point at their dogs with his fork. “Do they have names?” 

K flips the page of their book before lifting their attention. “Hm?”

He motions between the dogs again. “Do they have names?” 

A fond look shines in K’s eyes and they nod as they set aside their fork. “This lovely lad is Toast,” they inform, running a hand down the back of the stark white Husky on her left. “And this handsome young lady is Cracker,” they say moving the hand away from Toast to scratch the black labrador behind her ears. “Does your dog have a name? I’ve been calling him Biscuit, but if that’s not his name, I can switch so we don’t confuse him.” 

“Biscuit?” John repeats, an annoyed edge easing into his voice as his dog lifts his head curiously. “You named my dog Biscuit?” 

K hums an affirmative and reclaims their fork. “I have a theme thing going on with pets,” they explain, resuming the lazy twirl of the fork in the pasta. “Carbs in this case. I needed a carb or something bready or something like that and I was making biscuits at the time -- me and the dogs ate them all by the way, please don’t ask for one -- so it fit. Since he is your dog, you can change the name if you’d like.” 

Dog -- Biscuit -- looks up at John curiously, silently confirming that John lost an argument they weren’t having. He huffs in defeat and stabs his spaghetti once again. “Biscuit is fine,” he grumbles though he knows he probably doesn’t mean it. 

A victoriously amused look shines behind K’s eyes and they spin the fork again. “You sure?” 

John feels his core heat up again and he hardens his glare once more. “Don’t make me say it again.” 

K holds up the spaghetti decorated fork in surrender and coughs back a laugh. “I’m just making sure of everything, Mr. Wick,” they say. “You’re so angry.” 

“I think I have the right to be angry at this point,” he growls, setting his fork aside and tightening his hands into fists on top of the table. He’s killed people with less than a fork, so he doesn’t want to have one in case things turn sour. He’s still not sure if he wants K dead yet. “I’m being hunted by every assassin on the planet, and now the High Table wants me dead. Not to mention how someone I trusted with my LIFE betrayed me.” 

K sets their fork on their plate and sits up a bit straighter. Something flashes behind their eyes, but John can’t tell if it’s fear or amusement. At this point, John doesn’t know if he’s trying to intimidate them, but he knows he doesn’t like the look either way. 

“I’m sorry,” they say slowly. “You’re right. You’ve been through a lot and deserve to be angry. I seem to have overstepped and I’m sorry.” 

John doesn’t want sorry right now. Right now, John wants an argument. A fight. Something that will help him relieve some of the anger he didn’t know he was suppressing. OK, he knew he was suppressing it, but he didn’t know how badly he needs a release until now. He wore out a lot of his anger on the Adjudicator's soldiers, but he’s had time to gain more after Winston’s betrayal. He won’t take it out on a dog and K’s the only person in the room at this particular moment. He may apologize later. 

He slams his fist on the table and rises to his feet, the force of the action sending his chair sliding and clattering to the floor behind him. He feels his wounds strain at the suddenness at the action but his rage overlaps everything. “You’re damn right you overstepped,” he bites. “You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through in the past month, so don’t sit there and tell me I’m being too angry.” 

Toast and Cracker both lift their heads and let out low warning growls at John’s outburst and even Dog jumps to his feet in surprise. K, however, remains motionless, only shifting their hand to the table to let their book close. The unreadable look still gleams in their eyes and it only succeeds in angering John further.

As if to continue to add to John’s anger, K clears their throat. The sound is almost nervous, but the unpredictable nature of this kid makes John question the sincerity of the emotion. “I would point out the fact that I never assumed that I knew what you were going through,” they continue. “But I think--”

The end of the sentence fades when John swipes his arm across the table, sending his plate, K’s plate, and K’s book to the floor. Both plates shatter on impact and K’s dogs leap to their feet, hackles raised and teeth bared in preparation for attack. K seems to brace for an assault but doesn’t look like they’re going to make a move to counter it. However, he does notice the change in the expression in their eyes. Something darker floats to the surface, something challenging and defiant. They’re ready for a fight. Good, that’s just what John needs. It doesn’t matter if it’s a good fight, John just needs a release. He needs to hit something, someone, anyone. K’s the only person in the room. He’ll settle for that. 

“I don’t give a fuck what you think,” he says bitterly. He hears the angry waver in his voice and he knows K does too. Good. “I’m only here because the Bowery King said I could recover here. That’s it. I don’t need your opinions on shit that doesn’t concern you.” 

K is silent, not even chewing their lip to keep themself from speaking like they seem to have a habit of doing. It looks like the genuinely have nothing to say. Somehow that makes John angrier. “Now you want to keep quiet?” he spits. “That’s a surprise.” 

K exhales heavily and slowly pushes themself to their feet, all the while maintaining eye contact with the angry assassin. “You’re angry and looking for some way to let it all go,” they sum carefully. “If you need to yell, go ahead. If you wanna hit something, hit me. If you want to break more plates or just break stuff in general, I can find something for you to break. You’re here to recover, which is true as long as you want it to be. B.K. told me you’re probably going to be fucked up in more ways than one, so I guess I’m starting to see it. So you can get angry as much as you want, cause keeping shit inside isn’t good for you.” 

They’re right. John hates to admit it, but they’re right. He hasn’t had a chance to be properly angry in a while. It was always one carefully made move after the other with no time to slow down. All the anger from before everything, from when Helen died, rears its ugly head and John finally has a chance to release it. Yes, killing everyone who killed Daisy and everyone coming after was therapeutic, but he still feels angry about everything. He just about flips the table in his anger but can’t since all the dogs are in the way. 

“Go to hell,” he growls, turning on a heel and stalking back to the room claimed as his own. Dog is hot on his heels, but John makes him sit and stay in the kitchen with K and the other dogs. He does need to break something and he doesn’t want Dog in the way of it. 

He slams the door as soon as he crosses the threshold of the room and paces for a moment looking for something to let his anger out on. All that he sees are walls lined with bookshelves filled over-capacity with books and other trinkets, none of which look like they’re irreplaceable. John grabs the first shelf that comes within arm’s reach and tears it from its place, sending it and everything on it crashing to the floor. He decides he’ll apologize later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for the support this story is getting. I wasn't sure how much attention this was going to get since it is kinda slow paced for a John Wick story. However, I feel it's really important for John to be shown being hurt and being human and needing to take a break since it's probably not going to be explored in the movies. 
> 
> If you don't like it, well, don't read it. It's my story and I like writing it. 
> 
> Once again, thanks for the love! Keep it up! It makes me wanna write more!


	3. Chapter 3

Splinters and boards of three bookshelves are scattered amongst the destruction of the room while five more have merely been stripped of their contents or broken in half. The window has been cracked but not shattered, which is probably good considering how little he has on. He flipped the bed, broke the boxspring, shredded the sheets, and tore open two of the five pillows that were on top. The lamp that was on the nightstand has been broken by the nightstand when he flipped it over and he finished the job by tearing the whole circuit from the wall. 

He can fix all of that. He’s gotten pretty good at handiwork considering everything and if he can’t, he can pay for it to be fixed or replaced. He still has nest eggs hidden around and it would be easy to dip in to one for repairs. What he actually feels bad about is the books. He doesn’t know if he meant to as a means of release or as a way of getting back at K for their comments, but he wrecked almost sixty percent of the books that were on their shelves. Torn pages, broken covers, some books even shredded entirely simply because he could do it. They were the most abundant in the area and he took full advantage of the destruction he could reign on them. Nevertheless, his anger subsided for now and he regrets destroying K’s books. Considering how many they bought and how many are in the house in general, he’d safely say they’re pretty attached to books.

His reign of anger has been over for about an hour, but he has yet to peel himself away from his destruction. His body hurts and he’s pretty sure he tore a few stitches along the way, so he used a majority of the time to catch his breath and reassess his injuries. The time not used on injuries is used to wander around gathering and stacking the books that he didn’t wreck. Not an easy job amongst the rubble of everything, but he considers it partial repentance and keeps on. K hasn’t made an appearance despite the sound or lack thereof and John wonders briefly if he finally scared them off. Well, he doubts he’ll be able to do that since it is their house. Scared them in general then. 

The final book, hardback with a red cover that probably had a dust cover, is stacked on the final pile of salvageable books and he huffs through his nose. It’s over now. He needs to apologize. 

Ignoring the renewed pains in his body and the stickiness that comes with some of his movements, John picks his way through the minefield of shelves and feathers and pulls the door open, almost surprised that Dog isn’t waiting for him as he typically does. As it was last time, the house is quiet when he steps out of his room, save the light breeze and cricket songs floating in through the open windows. He makes his way down the hall to the empty living room and pulls his brows together in confusion, almost setting his thoughts churning with unpleasantness had one of the dogs not barked outside. He makes his way to the kitchen, making a note of the lack of broken plates or loose spaghetti before letting himself out the door. Dog, Cracker, and Toast seem to be enjoying themselves outside as John watches on the back porch, jumping and chasing each other through the sprinkler K must have set up. He can’t tell how long they’ve been out here, but judging by how soaked all the dogs are, he’s guessing a while. 

K themself sits in one of the chairs on the other end of the extended deck, curled into the seat with a different book than before. Again like before, they don’t look up when John comes out or closes the door and the dogs, too, give no indication of his appearance. He only gets their attention when he crosses the poarch, stops in front of them, and clears his throat. They glance up, fold the book over their finger, and smile hollowly. 

“What’s up?” they ask casually. “Feel better?” John nods and K mimics the action. “Good, good. I think you popped some stitches cause you’re bleeding through your shirt but hey, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

“I’m sore,” he admits tiredly. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

K snorts. “No, we go to the hospital like normal people,” they remark sarcastically. “What do I look like? Someone with health insurance? In this economy?” They laugh once at their own joke and shake their head happily. “It’s under the bathroom sink. And make sure to soak that shirt. We don’t want it to stain now, do we?” 

Same aloof tone. Same uncaring distance. Same K as far as he can tell. There’s no hint of any of the previous darkness from before and John doesn’t know he’s supposed to handle it. He nods and turns to head back inside but pauses halfway on the turn around. K raises an eyebrow as he turns his head to face them. “I wrecked the room.”

K presses their lips together and nods slowly. “I figured but alright.” 

“I also tore most of the books in the room.” 

K continues their nodding. “Again, I figured.” They shrug. “The books in that room were ones I either stole from a. . .job site, or just hated anyway. There’s no sentimental value in them.” 

John syncs up with K’s nodding. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

He might. His emotions are still frayed and volatile, meaning he can’t be trusted in making any emotion-based decisions just yet. So he turns, finishes his journey across the porch, and re-enters the house after passing a quick look towards Dog. Or Biscuit. He’ll have to choose later. Whatever his name is, he’s still playing with Toast and Cracker. Good. He needs friends. 

John closes the door and slips back to the bathroom, stripping off the bloodied shirt, locating the first aid kit, and setting to the task of redoing his stitches. Unlike many of the previous attempts at fixing himself, John takes his time in making sure his work is secure. He chews back each wince and groan as the needle pierces the horrid excuses of stitches past and takes extra care in disinfecting everything. He wasn’t too shocked to find that most of his older wounds have gotten infected or are starting to become infected and he took his time scrubbing away as much puss, ooze, disgusting scabs, and general filth as he could without blacking out with the pain it brought. 

It takes around forty minutes before the work is done and he’s able to drop the needle on the counter. His hand is shaking and he’s dizzy with blood loss, but now he has time to sit, attempt to relax, and actually let his wounds heal. He blows out a heavy breath and turns on the tap full blast, scrubbing the blood off his hands and the sink area before splashing his face with cold water. His head is still fuzzy when he finishes, but the water feels good on his skin nonetheless. 

He leaves the needle and kit on the counter as he exits the bathroom and is almost startled by the sound of a hairdryer being used in the living room. Curiosity gets the better of him, but he moves to the guest room first, dragging on a new shirt and a pair of sweatpants before he limps back to the living room. God he’s sore. 

Back to the living room, K sits on the floor in front of a couch blow drying and combing their husky as Dog and the lab laze by a fan. Dog -- fuck it, Biscuit -- scrambles to his feet and then to John’s side happily and welcomes the pets John’s gives him. K looks up immediately this time and flashes John a smile before returning to their task. 

“How do you still manage to look like a corpse after patching up?” they ask through a choked laugh. “It’s like you’re actually dead and your mind hasn’t caught up yet.” 

John lowers himself to sit on the floor and grunts slightly as Do-Biscuit makes himself comfortable in his lap. He bites back the urge to complain about smelling like wet dog in favor of letting his dog soothe the rest of his nerves. 

“I think you may be right,” John agrees lazily. “But I’ve found that spite is a great way to keep the heart pumping.” 

K barks a laugh and combs out another knot of dog fur. “I couldn’t agree more,” they say. “However, I’ve also found that dogs are a really great reason to live if you don’t have any other one. Hobbies are decent I suppose if you find the right one.” 

John scratches the spot Biscuit loves most and suppresses a working smile. “Dogs are a really good one,” he agrees. The urge to smile fades at the mention of the hobby that brings memories of K’s destroyed books. “Look--” 

“If you’re going to apologize again, I’m going to kill you,” K interrupts. Their tone doesn’t hold anything that would suggest they’re telling the truth. “You didn’t hurt anything important. I honestly can’t remember what was in there and was probably going to give them away sooner or later.” They shrug. “Ah well. I’m more concerned about finding you another place to sleep until we get that room fixed.” 

“I can get it done tomorrow,” John assures quickly. “I’m good at damage control.” 

“I bet you are,” K half mumbles, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the hairdryer. John frowns sourly. K is suddenly very interested in grooming their dog. “We could set up the couch,” they offer. “It’s pretty comfy.” 

John wants to say he doesn’t care about comfort as long as it works, but that bed was the best thing he’s slept on in a while and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Now that he’s had a taste of the past, he’s almost desperate for more. He wants comfort. That in mind, he nods silently and continues petting his dog. K nods again and has the husky -- what did they say her name was? Toast? -- turn and brushes her chest. “Blankets and shit’s in the closet,” they continue. Their voice rises a pitch showing John they know they’re trying to hide their true amusement at the situation. “Did you spare any pillows? I know those ones were great.” 

They were. 

“Three are still in tact,” John informs. “I can grab them.” 

K shakes their head and taps Toast away, the latter of which looks significantly drier, fluffier, and happier than before. “I’m getting up anyway,” they say. “Gotta shower before I clock out. I smell like a wet dog.” 

John knows how that feels, but he doesn’t do anything to remove Biscuit from his lap. “It’s a mess in there,” John says as K kills the hairdryer. “Be ready.” 

“I’m sure I’ve seen plenty worse than whatever you’ve done to that room,” K assures. “But I appreciate the heads up.”

There’s the tone again. The one John doesn’t know how to read but definitely hints at something darker. At this point, John isn’t worrying about it too much. He knows K is hiding things could be dangerous. That doesn’t mean he can’t take them. . .

Wait. 

“Can I ask a question?” 

K stops at the end of the hall and half turns to face him. “You just did.” 

John chews his cheek to keep from spitting a bitter response. “I meant a personal question,” he clarifies. “If you don’t mind answering it.” 

K folds their arms and leans against the wall. “We’re probably gonna be stuck together for a while,” they declare. “We might as well get the personal questions outta the way now.” 

“What should I call you?” 

K snorts and unfolds an arm to rub the corner of their eye. “I thought we got over the name hurdle a while ago.” 

John rolls his eyes. “I meant pronoun wise,” he clarifies. “I’ve been thinking of you as ‘they,’ but if I’m wrong--”

“They or him is fine,” K interjects. “Pretty much anything but she. Despite what everyone and everything may say, I am not a she.” 

“Noted,” John says with a nod. “Thank you.”

“No,” K rejects through the first genuine smile John has seen since they’ve met. “Thank you for asking.” They don’t wait for a response before spinning and disappearing down the hallway. 

John lets his head rest against the wall he leans against and listens as K lets themself into the guest room. If they give any type of reaction, John can’t see or hear it as they step inside. It takes them a few minutes to come back out, but John assumes it’s because of the mess. He wouldn’t be able to do much better than K more than likely since he did do a number on the area. Who knows what they had to dig under to find them. 

After a few minutes, K reamerges. “Alright,” K starts, proudly displaying the intact pillows in their arms. “Found them.” 

John feels like he should apologize again, but he knows K would probably just shush them again. He nods as they move to the couch and drop the pillows down. “Thanks.” 

“No problem.” They pause, stretch their arms over their head, squeak out a tired groan, then let their hands fall back to their sides when the action is complete. “I’m fucking tired,” they announce. “Blankets are in the closet. You got it from here, right?” 

“Yeah,” John replies with another nod. “Night.” 

“Night.” K whistles a short, sharp note and Toast and Cracker are on their feet, trotting happily as they’re motioned down the hall. “See ya in the morning.” 

“See ya.” John watches K turn and head down before turning into their bedroom and shutting the door behind them. Most of the lights are still on in the house, but it doesn’t bother John too much. He’s slept in worse conditions. Besides, he’s fine as long as he has Dog. Biscuit. He’ll get used to it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who comment and leave kudos! I'm glad ya'll are liking this story cause i like writing it! Keep it up! I appreciate all the attention I get! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illness warning. Fever warning. Vomit warning. Needle warning.

John wakes up on fire. Thankfully that’s not a literal statement, but he’s sweating enough for him to think it is. His body hurts in a hundred different places and it’s a chore to open his eyes. The light filtering in from the living room window sends jackhammers through his skull and he presses his eyes closed again. A groan of agony pushes from his core and he lifts an arm to cover his eyes. The action hurts. His muscles ache. Something is wrong. 

“You don’t sound so good.” 

John forces his eyes open again and looks toward the hallway where K’s voice comes from. K leans against the hallway wall, the deep bags under their eyes letting John know they didn’t sleep last night. He feels like he didn’t either. 

“I’m starting to think you just have this. . . terrible appearance aesthetic you have to maintain at all times no matter what happens,” K jokes. John can’t find the strength to roll his eyes, but he makes the strength to push himself to a sit. “Is it supposed to add to the Baba Yaga thing or. . .”

“What did you do to me?” 

K’s eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”

Another groan rolls up as John struggles to his feet, causing the confusion in K’s eyes to melt into concern. He feels his stomach turning at the action and his legs tremble with a weakness that wasn’t there last night. His shirt is pasted to his skin and his hair is plastered to his forehead and obscures his vision a little. He’s going to be sick. “What did you do to me?” he asks again, making sure to force as much venom in his tone that he can manage. “Did you drug me? My food? Slow acting toxin?” 

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” they respond, “but I think you should sit down.” 

John thinks so too. His head feels light and it’s hard to keep his vision in focus. However, he hates the idea of showing weakness to someone who could have poisoned him. “I don’t care what you think,” he bites. “I don’t trust you.” 

John’s legs give slightly and K takes a step forward “John,” they say. Their tone holds an urgent note that John can’t recall ever hearing before. “John. Look. I know you don’t trust me. That’s cool. But I need you to calm down and sit down.” 

Again, John can’t deny it. “Shut u-” His voice chokes out as his stomach lurches violently. K raises a cautious eyebrow. He opens his mouth to try and speak again, but all that comes out is a painful gag. K’s eyes widen in horror and they dart down the hallway, returning just in time to shove the plastic bathroom trashcan in John’s hands as he starts vomiting. Since he didn’t eat much, his vomit quickly turns to bile that burns when it comes up, but his stomach lurches and turns and voids whatever it can. Thankfully the endeavor doesn’t last long and John is left panting and shaking where he stands. 

His head feels lighter than before and his legs nearly give out under him. K snatches the trashcan from his hands before he does and manages to get under his arm and take most of his weight when he falters. Since he is almost a foot taller than them and probably a hundred pounds heavier, K grunts as John uses them for support and they both almost hit the ground. “Christ,” they grunt, quickly setting the trashcan aside and concentrating on fully supporting John. “That wasn’t an invitation to crush me.”

John can’t reply. His vision is swimming and darkening at a pace he can’t keep up with. It feels like he could throw up again but he knows he has nothing else to give. Everything aches. 

“This may be obvious,” K continues, slowly helping John get back on the couch and lie down without just collapsing. “But I think you may have a fever.” 

He can’t respond. He’s too weak to do so. He can barely keep his eyes open. So he doesn’t. 

K nearly panics when John goes still, but they manage to reign themself in when they spot him breathing. John definitely doesn’t feel well, that’s for sure, but K doesn’t understand why. From what they understand, he took care of his wounds sometime last night. Then again, he did wait almost a month to do so. Maybe infection? Given the suddenness and intensity of his fever, K would say it’s a combination of wound infection, exhaustion, and general illness. He has been through a lot and K guesses it’s finally starting to catch up to him. 

A tired sigh pushes from their core and runs a hand down their face. They can’t take care of themself when they’re sick. How are they supposed to take care of someone else? What are they supposed to do if he dies? What if he wakes up and thinks they’re trying to kill him? Will he fight? Would they have to fight back? Do they have a chance against John Wick even if he’s this bad? 

“John won’t kill me,” they huff quietly. “He hasn’t this far, so why would he now?” 

The thought helps keep K level-headed and they rub their face again. OK, what do they know about illness. Nothing. New plan, what do they know about the human body under stress? Twelve pounds of pressure can break a leg bone. A human body can lose two to four litres of blood before it dies. A hard enough hit to the chest can stop the heart. At 107 degrees fahrenheit, the human brain can fry. 

That last one is the only relevant one. Given that K doesn’t own a thermometer -- despite probably needing to -- they decided the best thing to do is try to lower John’s internal temperature. They don’t want to send him into shock, so they decide that cool compresses against major veins should do the trick. He also looks dehydrated, which can’t be good considering everything else he’s going through. How long has he been this bad? 

K moves into the kitchen and grabs a bowl and a dishtowel, filling the bowl with cool tap water before going back and sitting beside John’s head. They don’t know how long this method is going to take, but they better start now if they don’t want the fever to get worse. 

“Helen. . .” 

K stirs awake at the weak voice and blinks heavily, almost concerned that they fell asleep in the first place. Their original plan was to stay awake the whole night to make sure John didn’t die, but that clearly failed since they’re waking up now. They know they didn’t sleep for long since the wall clock reads two fifteen, meaning they’ve only been out for about twenty minutes. John’s been mumbling incoherently through the day and most of the night and it worried K for a while until it didn’t. They heard that high fevers can cause fever dreams and incoherency if it got bad enough, so they stopped worrying when they realized it was normal. Then they started worrying that they got so used to the effects of a high fever so fast. 

He stopped muttering for a while and his fever seemed to be going down, so that’s probably how they fell asleep so easily. Now he’s started again and K’s back on alert. None of his mutters thus far have been anything of import or anything that made sense, so this one clear word is jarring. They can’t say they know who this Helen person is, but she must be important if they make John think clearly. 

“Helen?” John says again, this time causing K to turn around and face him. His eyes are half-opened, unfocused, glazed over, and staring at some point far beyond the ceiling. Not a good sign. “Wait for me, Helen. I’m coming.” 

More panic seeps into K’s core and they leap to their feet, pressing the back of their hand to John’s forehead and stiffening at the temperature. Somehow his temperature rose in the past twenty minutes. “Shit.” 

“Helen.” 

“No, no, no,” K babbles, quickly grabbing the bottom of John’s shirt and pulling it up and over his head. He needs to cool down and the shirt isn’t helping. “Don’t go to Helen. Helen isn’t good for you. Stay away from Helen.” 

Once his shirt is removed, K grabs the rag from the water again and swears. Warm. Not what they need right now. “Hold on, John,” they say, turning and hurrying to the kitchen. “Hold on.” 

They quickly drain the warm water from the bowl and refill it with cool water from the tap. Back to the couch where John’s mumbling slips back to incoherency save the occasional muttering of the name Helen. They reclaim their spot by the couch and set the bowl beside their legs, cooling the rag in the water before running it over John’s chest and neck area. 

“Someone’s gonna kill me if you die,” K says. “So I need you to live.” 

John’s fever lowers a few degrees after a few hours but doesn’t break and K feels a new wave of panic forming. They’ve had to strip John to his underwear and cover him in cold, damp towels to accomplish the task of getting him a few degrees cooler, and it helped stop his mumbling and allowed him to settle in better. He still whispers for Helen a few times, but he’s without incident for the most part. Once K’s sure he’s at least halfway under control, they tend to the dogs. 

Usually, K would stay outside and wait for the dogs to do their business and burn off some spare energy, but they can’t this time. If John starts going downhill again, it could be trouble. So they just let the dogs outside, fill the food and water bowls, then sit in a chair in the kitchen where they can see out the window while still keeping John in their view. It took a second to convince Biscuit to move away from John’s side and he even growled a bit when they tried to pet him and assure him it’s alright to move. Good dog. Loyal. 

Since John’s been out, they’ve been doing a lot of research in how to break a high grade fever. Apparently hospitals will use an IV drip of cold saline if the person has a high enough fever. They assume John has a high enough fever to try it. Do they have anymore saline in the fridge? They should check. They do and they do. Great. Will he let them get an IV in? Not great. They don’t want to fight John Wick. Feverish or not, they’re sure he’s going to kill them. No matter, they need to try. With the way his fever keeps spiking, K’s not sure external cooling methods are going to work much longer. Besides, if it’s tried and tested in hospitals, why shouldn’t it be tried and tested in living rooms of desperate workmen?

One way or another, angry Boogeyman or not, K’s gonna have to try. As much as they hate to admit it, they’re hoping John is too out of it to fight them. They’ll just leave the dogs outside for a bit while the IV is set up. They don’t want to risk John missing them and shooting a dog in his potential anger if he decides a fight is the best way to go. 

K’s almost sad at how out of it John is. Not only did he not fight when they set up the IV of cold saline, but he grabbed their hand and called for Helen again. K still doesn’t know who Helen is or if John wants to talk about her when he’s awake, but they’ll pencil the name away for later. 

They want to sleep. Probably need to considering how they haven’t slept in six days, but as soon as they relax, John will crash again. At least, they believe he will. That’s how it always is with their luck. As soon as it looks like it’s going good, everything goes bad. They don’t have a problem looking after John or his dog, they just wish he wasn’t down with a sickness. They can handle injuries, but illness is a whole other beast K isn’t qualified to handle. 

OK, they technically aren’t qualified to handle anything, but they’ve handled more injuries than illnesses. Being a ‘hired hand’ is dangerous work and they’ve stitched themselves back together more times than they can count. They’ve reset their own bones, dug bullets out their own flesh cauterized themself with things that weren’t meant for cauterization, and used dental floss as a tourniquet once. Injury management is second nature for them at this point. Illness management isn’t something that comes up often enough for them to consider it needed. Sadly hindsight is twenty-twenty. If John survives this, they’ll make sure to study up. 

For now, they’ll just sit by John and hope for the best. They took the liberty of re-cleaning John’s wounds to ensure the infection won’t come back and they restitched some of the iffy places they imagine John couldn’t reach himself. John doesn’t make any moves through any of it. They think the saline is working, though. John is getting more color back in his skin and he doesn’t look like he’s sitting right at Death’s door anymore. 

OK, that’s kind of a lie. Half-dead appears to be John’s aesthetic at this point but K doesn’t believe he’s is actively dying anymore, so they count it as a win. So with their dogs still at their side and John’s at his, K sets themself in a chair nearby, opens a new book, and settles in for the night. 

John’s fever breaks the next afternoon. 

As usual, K doesn’t notice since they’re reading the latest plot twist in their book. It takes a happy yap from Biscuit and John’s pained groan to pull their attention away just before they flip the page. Relief crashes like a wave as they watch John pet and “fuss at” his dog, and they find themself grateful they opted to put the IV bag over the back of the couch instead of in front of it like they wanted. They’re sure Biscuit would have torn it out in his excitement. Like John’s trying to do now, except John’s doing it out of fear and not joy. 

K is quick to set their book aside and leap to their feet, hands extended in John’s direction without touching him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” they caution, causing John to freeze and snap his gaze toward them. He looks startled and disoriented, but he has full color back and he’s not sweating. Yet another win in K’s book. “I know it looks cool in the movies, but please don’t yank out that IV. It’s saline, I swear.” 

It takes a moment for the daze in John’s eyes to fade and his attention to focus fully. K manages a forced smile they hope looks natural. They know it’s nervous though. A startled John Wick is said to be a dangerous one. K doesn’t necessarily want to find out if that’s true or not when he still has a needle in his arm since said needle could be used as a weapon. K just hope he doesn’t yank it out, weaponized or not. They don’t think hemorrhaging from an IV bleed out is how he wants to die. 

“It’s me,” they remind gently. “Still K. Just us and the dogs, remember?” Another moment, then John nods. “Great. How you feeling?” 

John examines K careful before swallowing thickly. “Thirsty.” 

K nods and slides into the kitchen, reappearing a few seconds later with a glass of ice water in their hand. They pass the glass to John, who raises it and nods a thanks before draining it. “Want more?” John nods and the process is repeated. “Better?”

“A bit,” John admits. “What happened?” 

“You got sick,” K sums. “I’m assuming that your travels through the month finally caught up with you and you crashed hard. I didn’t drug you or try to kill you or anything else you could possibly accuse me of.” 

John almost looks offended at the thought, though K can’t tell if it’s from him getting sick or him making a potentially false accusation. Whatever. He’s alive. 

“How long was I out?” he asks, setting the glass on the floor to focus on petting Biscuit. 

K almost smiles at the softness but keeps it in check by shrugging. “A few days,” they reply. “Three or so.” 

John doesn’t look concerned at the prospect of being asleep for three days. K recalls how concerned he looked when they told him he slept for almost twenty hours, so they take it as yet another win from John Wick. Is it trust? More than likely not. But the fact he doesn’t want to kill them for seeing him so vulnerable is a miracle. At least K thinks it is. They can’t recall an instance of anyone ever seeing the infamous Baba Yaga vulnerable and weak without being killed. Except for maybe this Helen lady. Maybe. K doesn’t know that story. 

John’s eyebrows pull together in confusion and he looks over at K. “Did you tell me that my wife Helen isn’t good for me?”

It takes a moment for K to process the question and their eyes widen in shock when they do. “You’re married!?” 

There’s the look again. The one K can’t decide is offended or annoyed. The only difference in the one John is giving now is the sorrowful mourning behind his eyes. “I was,” he says tightly. “She got sick and died a month and a half ago.” 

Ouch. The emotional blow K just received from the statement feels physical and they have to lower themself to sit on the ground to process it. They can’t understand why it’s affecting them so much, they just know it hurts. Maybe it’s exhaustion. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” they reply. “I didn’t know.” 

John snorts joylessly. “Everyone in the Underground heard,” he counters. 

“I don’t associate with anyone in the Underground. I just get jobs.”

“How?” 

K returns the snort. “I’ll tell you that if you tell me how you managed to get so fucked up in a month.” 

The sorrow and partial defense in John’s eyes is washed over by a thoughtful confusion. “You really don’t know?” 

K shrugs and leans back to put their weight on their hands. “I don’t look into business that’s not mine unless I’m getting paid for it. Keeps my nose clean and enemies at a healthy distance.” 

John nods thoughtfully as he ponders the statement, all the while maintaining full eye contact with K. Then he nods decisively. “Fine,” he declares. “If you’re going to help me, you should know the story.” 

K smiles casually and shrugs again. “We’ll see about the helping part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun to write because I love writing people in pain. Or recovering from pain. I'm a whump fan, what can I say. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for keeping up with this story if you are and if you're not, thanks for reading this far! I really enjoy writing this and the fact that people are enjoying reading it is making my day. Thanks!
> 
> Make sure the leave kudos and comments if you like this story!


	5. Chapter 4

John can’t say talking to K helped, but it didn’t not help. It didn’t lift a weight from his shoulders or bring tears to his eyes. He will say it did help to have a neutral ear to talk everything out to. Someone who doesn’t have a stake on his life, if they even care about his situation at all. The entire time John talked, K’s face remained neutral and unimpressed. There was no surprise at any of the events John explained or any asked questions when things got twisted and complicated. Despite them mentioning not knowing anything, K doesn’t give the impression that they were completely in the dark. 

That fact doesn’t suprise John in the slightest. Their reputation is one of a Ghost who knows things. John doesn’t know the extent of their knowledge, but he guesses it’s enough. 

Once the story finishes, K leans back in their chair. “One question.”

That almost surprises John, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. “Go ahead.”

“Would you be interested in getting a new finger?”

That does surprise John and he’s unable to keep it off his face. 

K motions to the wounded left hand. “It looks fresh enough,” they explain. “I know a guy who can get you a humanely acquired finger and can replace it for you.”

The first emotion that hits is confusion, then a mild disgust, then a morbid curiosity. “Define ‘humanely acquired’.”

An amused smile flashes across K’s face before it returns to neutrality. “I have a friend in the science field,” they explain vaguely. “I just need to take a couple measurements and I can have your new finger by Friday.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” 

“Some things are better not known.”

The offer isn’t the least bit tempting. “I’ll pass,” he says. He hopes his tone is at least halfway polite, though it’s more than likely full of disgust. 

Whatever his emotion, K shrugs and checks the time on their phone. “Well, I have to go to the store,” they announce, pushing themselves to a stand and shoving their phone in their back pocket. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I think you should let the IV drip a bit longer considering how shitty you look, so I’ll get a fresh fluid bag and let you sit with it till I get back, ok?”

John tuned out everything after store. It takes that exact phrase for John to realize how antsy he is. He’s only been here for about a week, but he hasn’t been anywhere past the yard since he got here. Yes, he’s enjoying the down time and now that he’s recovered from his illness, John actually feels better. He’s starting to want to get out in the world. He doesn’t want to sound too desperate to escape. 

“Do you need me to come with you?” he offers. “I could drive.”

K raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want you mess up my seat adjustment,” they reject. “But if you want to come, you can.”

The raised brow draws John’s attention to K’s eyes. Deep, dark, heavy, black bags hang under K’s eyes and exhaustion is obvious in the slight haze under their brown. “When was the last time you’ve slept?” 

Another nonchalant shrug, this one punctuated with a yawn that seems to surprise K with the force. They blink, shake their head, then smile lazily. “Few days,” they decide. “Maybe a week.” 

“That isn’t healthy.”

A sarcastic laugh pushes from K’s mouth and they step forward and motion for his arm. “I don’t think you’re one to talk to me about healthy,” they say. “And besides, I fell asleep for a few minutes while you were sick.” It takes John a second to realize they’re about to take out his IV and he give his arm up when he does. K’s quick, but surprisingly careful, in sliding the needle and port from his arm, then not so gently pressing their thumb against the entry point. They mutter something under their breath about a piece of cotton or something, then grabs John’s hand to hold it on his own. Once he’s set, they turn to move down the hall. “Besides, I’m still moving.” 

“That doesn’t counter my point,” John reminds. 

“Do you want to go or not?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Then stop criticizing my habits and get dressed.”

John nods and nudges Biscuit aside, allowing himself room to stand up and a few towels to fall off of him. Both K and John stare at said towels for a moment before looking up and meeting each other’s eyes. Neither of them speak for a moment until K shrugs. “I needed to cool you down.”

It doesn’t answer the question of how long they’ve been there or how high John’s temperature rose due to his illness, but John never asked those questions in the first place. He accepts the explanation with a nod. “I’m going to shower.”

“Please do.”

John glares. K directs their attention to their dogs. Seeing how K typically responds to most things in such a way, John rolls his eyes and takes that as the only response he’s going to get. He won’t say anything about being stripped near naked or how he’s sticky and soggy from the towels used to cool him down. If he got bad enough that they decided a cold saline IV was the only way to save him, he must have been bad. He supposes they saved his life. Great. Another debt. 

Ignoring the jab of worry and anger that hits his core, John moves to the bathroom and shuts the door. After making sure his pinprick won’t bleed out, he covers his stitches to keep them dry, noting how K must have redone most of them, and steps under the steaming water. It’s not as hot as he would like, but it’s enough to make him feel better. He doesn’t stay too long in case K gets impatient and leaves him and he dries and dresses quickly but carefully. This is the best his stitches have looked in a while and he doesn’t want to ruin them. Once dressed, John exits the room and makes his way down the hall. 

All three dogs lie on the ground around the chair K sits in, all of which lifting their heads as soon as John enters. John isn’t surprised in the slightest in seeing K reading yet another book, or at the fact they don’t look up until John clears his throat. “How many books do you have left?” he asks when K acknowledges him. “New, I mean. You bought books earlier in the week.” 

K glances at the page for a second then closes the book. “One after this,” they say, setting the book on the chair when they stand. “Mind if we stop by the bookstore before we go to the store. Again, I should say.”

“Fine with me.”

K smiles and grabs their keys from the coffee table and leads the way to the front door. John notes the lack of shoes and debates on voicing his concerns. “Great,” they say. “Thanks.”

John wants to make the point that he couldn’t argue with them if he wanted to since K is the one driving, but he doesn’t. At least they’re asking. Just before K steps outside, John reaches out and grabs their shoulder. “Shoes?”

“I have some in the car.” 

Can’t argue with that. John releases them and lets them keep going, almost amused at the way they hop across the heated paved driveway. Then they bounce from foot to foot for a few seconds trying to locate the car key and practically throw themself inside once the doors open. John rolls his eyes as he walks around to the passenger side and climbs in. “Shoes in the car?”

K shares the roll of the eyes. “It was a good idea at the time,” they explain, starting the car but making no move for any type of shoes. “In case of emergency, you know?”

“What kind of emergency would lead to you needing to keep shoes in the car?”

“When your entire life goes up in flames, you learn to store things in strange places. Just to have something to hold on to.”

The seriousness in their tone startles John more than he wants to admit. No, it’s not seriousness. That tone sounds haunted and the look in their eyes match. That’s about the closest thing to a life story John’s gotten from them since they’ve met. In fact, besides the vague, threat-like tones and suggestions, John doesn’t know anything besides the rumors of the Ghost. He doesn’t know anything about K themself outside of that. Well, he knows they like books and aren’t female. That’s about it. 

“You look thoughtful,” K notes, though their attention hasn’t shifted away from driving. John realizes that while he was thinking, K had gotten them on the main road in the direction of the town. He was asleep most of the drive to K’s house, so he makes a note to pay more attention now in case he needs to leave without K. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking,” John replies. 

K rolls their eyes. “I didn’t fucking notice. Now that we’ve got the obvious out of the way, smartass, how about telling me what you’re thinking about so deeply.”

“I’m thinking about how I don’t know you.” 

“Again, fucking obvious.”

“I mean I don’t know you at all. I don’t know if K is your real name, you haven’t told me how you ended up working around the Table, and I still don’t know how dangerous you are. All in all, I don’t know if I can trust you.”

There’s a moment of silence where K simply stares at the road ahead and drives. Their signature aloofness is gone and replaced by a thoughtful seriousness John wouldn’t have suspected they were capable of a few days ago. They’re thinking something through thoroughly, that’s for sure. John just doesn’t know what. He’s told them a lot more about himself than he thought was possible. Admittedly he left out a lot since they didn’t ask about before Helen or his time under the Table, nor did he think they cared. They still probably don’t. Still John would assume that they’d be more forthcoming since he opened up a bit for them. 

Then again, K’s whole reputation is based of off anonymity and confusion. John himself has heard more rumors about Ghost than he could keep track of, and half of them contradicted the other half at least ten times over. No one knew what was true about Ghost except Ghost, and that seems to be how they liked it. However, that also makes them hard to trust. John can’t say he’s trusted everyone in his life up until this point, and now he’s not sure he trusts anyone anymore, not even the Bowery King. 

Despite anything and everything he might say or do, John really needs someone he can trust right now. He doesn’t care how little it is, he just needs someone he doesn’t think is going to stab him in the back. Or shoot him in more recent times. He needs something he can hold onto besides Dog -- Biscuit. Someone besides Biscuit. Someone to watch his back since most people who look at it are trying to kill him. 

He’s tired. 

“Well.” For once in their entire relationship, K’s tone is guarded and cautious. Understandable. “I feel like no matter what I say, you’re going to doubt me since everyone in your life seems to have fucked you over at least once--”

John feels his core heat up. “Stop deflecting,” he demands coldly. K tightens their grip on the steering wheel and a steel shutter rolls down behind their eyes. John exhales slowly. “Look,” he tries again, calmer this time. “Your life is based off of secrets, I get it. But at least throw me a bone.” 

He doesn’t think K is capable of anger, but they don’t look happy at the situation. If John had to make a comparison, he would say the look like a trapped animal. They look ready to throw themself out of the car, moving or not, at any given opportunity. They haven’t said anything yet, so he takes it as a good sign. Scratch that, it’s a decent one. K’s still unpredictable. 

Ten minutes go by before K speaks again. “I made my first kill when I was fourteen,” they say. “Shit went haywire and I didn’t have a choice. Fucked me up for three weeks after that.” They swallow thickly before they go on. “Can’t really say it’s gotten easier, but killing doesn’t give me nightmares anymore.” 

It’s true. John can tell in his heart it’s true. K’s tone is too. . .not K for it not to be. It hurt them to talk about it and it shows not just in their tone, but in their eyes as well. John wages to say they haven’t had to talk to anyone about anything hard in a long time. 

That fact almost hurts John. He’s had Helen to hold him and soothe him when he woke from his nightmares. Helen was his rock, his confidant, and the one person in the world he knew wouldn’t hurt him. Who is that person for K? Everyone needs someone, but K hasn’t given any indication they even have friends. They live in total isolation with only their dogs for company. How hard must it be? How hard did they have to shut themself down to act like they’re ok? 

No. John can’t allow himself to get attached just because they seem lost. He can’t worry about someone else when he’s having trouble keeping himself alive. 

“Also I can’t shoot a gun,” K tacks on after a few seconds of heavy silence. 

Their tone sounds more like their natural speaking voice than it did before, but the statement confuses John. “What?”

The shutters roll away and K’s neutrality returns. “Mm-hm,” they nod. “I can’t shoot a gun. The closest thing to accuracy I can get is a shotgun pellet shot.” 

“Anyone can hit anything with one of those.”

“Exactly. That’s why I like it so much. Recoil Is a bitch though.”

John blinks. “You mean to tell me you’ve been killing people for years now and you can’t shoot a gun?” K hums in confirmation. “How?”

K shrugs and smirks at the road. “I’m a ghost, John,” they remind. “I don’t go around being loud and alerting people to my shit. I’d be out a job if that were the case.” 

“What do you use then?”

“I’m specialized in knife work mostly, but I usually just make things up with what’s around me as I go along.”

Not as surprising as the fact they can’t shoot a gun, so John turns it over in his head and nods. “I guess that makes sense.” 

K’s signature neutral-yet-somehow-amused-at-the-same-time smile makes a return. The previous guard has been dropped. That is good in John’s book. “I know it does,” they agree. “It makes it so much easier to frame people when the weapon is in their own house.” 

“What about fingerprints?” 

K hesitates. “Well, there are two answers to that question,” they say. They’re choosing their words carefully again. “One, I wear gloves and use someone else’s prints to make a kill. . .” 

The last part fades out. John raises an eyebrow. “Two?”

“You can’t exactly have a suspect if the prints belong to someone who’s been dead since they were six. . .”

John is thrown through a loop. No amount of thinking it over will clear up any confusion the statement brings. “What does that even mean?” 

K taps a nervous rhythm onto the steering wheel with their thumbs and purposely avoids looking to the passenger side. “Well. . .” They drag out the word as they try to piece the next sentence together. “K isn’t my real name. . .”

“I didn’t fucking notice,” John repeats with the same sarcasm K used with the statement. “Now that we’ve stated the obvious. . .”

K barks out a laugh and shakes their head. “I haven’t had to actually converse with people in years,” they defend. “I’m spilling my guts here, so let me think.” John nods an agreement and K nods a thanks. “Now then. . .K isn’t my real name. And before you ask, it isn’t a letter found anywhere in my deadname whatsoever, so don’t think about it too much.”

“Fine.”

“Great. So now that you know that, you can know that my deadname, my mother, my father, and both sets of grandparents were killed when my deadname was six years old.” 

That gets John’s attention. “Can I ask questions?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Will you answer them?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yeah.” 

“Depends on the question.” 

Expected and understandable, but at least he’s getting somewhere. “Was it an accident?” 

“No.”

“How did you manage to survive?” 

A pause. “I was useful.”

“Is that how you got under the Table?”

“No. Tables are quite easy to get under. Especially tables deemed important like conference tables of dining tables. Higher legs. More blindspots.” 

They’re retreating, yet that was an answer. A roundabout one, yes, but an answer nonetheless. John wonders how many more questions he has before K locks up. “Why did your family get killed?” 

K’s knuckles turn white on the wheel. Something haunted flashes in their eyes just for a moment before the shutters slam down once more. Their neutral smirk makes a return, lazy yet guarded. A sense of relaxation washes over K’s demeanor and their grip loosens. “That’s a question for the assassin who took them out,” they say. “Kline Johnson.”

John raises an eyebrow. He’s heard of Kline Johnson, but that was before Helen. He’s even had a few drinks with him in the Continental. They weren’t friends, but they’ve never fought each other, which was close enough to friendship in past-John’s book. They lost contact a year before he left and married Helen and he wasn’t looking for him. Now that he thinks about it, Kline hasn’t been seen in a few years. Not a whisper. 

The answer hits John before he asks the question. 

“Where would I be able to find him to ask?”

K works their grip on the steering wheel again. “Middle of some deep woods in Bumfuck, New Hampshire, last I saw him.” 

John knows he should stop, but there’s another answer he needs confirmed before he can. “What happened to him there?” 

K inhales and exhales slowly, maintaining strict eye contact with the road and nowhere else. “I killed him when I was fourteen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo! Thanks for reading! If you like this story, please leave a kudos or a comment! Every little bit helps! Love you all!


	6. Chapter 6

The remainder of the trip was silent save K’s occasional rapid tapping on the steering wheel. It makes John nervous, but can’t say anything since he knows K is more nervous than he is. Their posture is tense and they don’t look anywhere but the road in front of them. John didn’t mean to make K uncomfortable, though he can’t say he regrets it. He needed something to trust and K gave it to him. Needless to say, he still has questions, but decides against asking them. He doesn’t know how far K is capable of retreating into themself and he doesn’t want to find out. 

So he finishes the ride in silence and keeps his questions to himself, memorizing and mapping the route to town. The trip takes about forty-five minutes before they reach the end of the town, passing the local grocery store in favor of making their way to the main street. Since John wasn’t focused on anything but finding Ghost the first day he arrived, he takes a moment to actually look at his surroundings.    


There’s not much to see of the small town’s main street, a few brick front shops lining the sides of the road that lead to the main highway and beyond. He spots the bookstore, a laundry mat, jewelers, and a florist just in his quick glance, though there are more shops with interesting fronts he can’t make out just beyond his range of sight. He wants to take a walk, but he feels himself growing uneasy at the exposure. Maybe he should have stayed out of sight for a bit longer.

“If you open the glove box, you can find at least two knives,” K offers as they pull into a parking spot. “There’s another one in the side panel of the door and another two in the pocket behind the seat if you’d like.” They cut the engine and lean back to look at him, the smile they flash nothing like the relaxed ones from before, though it’s a remarkable attempt. If he were anyone else, John is sure he would have been fooled. “You look uncomfortable and I think you want to be armed.”

The tone they use isn’t as casual as they probably hope, but they look like they desperately want it to be. Talking about the past rattled them more than John would have guessed. He definitely feels sorry about that, so he plays along in hopes their tension will pass quickly. 

He nods a thanks and opens the glove compartment, carefully studying the offered weapons. After a moment, he selects an iridescent, multicolored butterfly knife and raises it questioningly. K smiles at the selection, this time much more natural than before, and nods agreeingly. 

“Thank you,” John says, sliding the knife into his jeans pocket. “Was it that obvious?”

“I wouldn’t have offered a weapon if it didn’t look like you needed one,” K counters. “I don’t often give weapons to people who might want to kill me. But with you. . . Eh, what the fuck. You could kill me with less anyway.”

  
John finally comes to a conclusion. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “I still don’t know how much I can trust you, but I’m not going to kill you.” 

K laughs bitterly and opens their door. “That’s what Kline said,” they recall. “Look what happened there.”   
  


John wants to point out how he doesn’t know much about what happened besides Kline had to die, but he doesn’t want them to retreat again. Not when they’re making so much progress. “You have my word,” he insists, extending a hand in their direction. K freezes at the gesture and John doesn’t press. “I’m not going to kill you.”

K stares at John’s hand for a minute and John lets them, already knowing how much trust means in this line of work. John knows he’s asking a lot from someone they just met, but he feels it’s fair. He did just hand over his life to them when he got sick for three days. Still, he can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since K’s put their trust in someone. Based on what he’s seen and heard so far and the rumors he’s heard, John can guess it’s been a while. 

It takes a full two minutes for K to make their decision, hesitating the whole time it takes them to move their hand and clasp it around his. Their palm is cold against John’s but their grip is firm, letting John know all he needs to.    
  
“Fine by me,” they agree. “I doubt you’ll call this a friendship, but this could be a beautiful start.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

A renewed, fully relaxed smile pulls on K’s lips as they pull their hand back. “Uh-huh,” they counter. “Two people who barely know how to function outside of a professional relationship, or a relationship where people don’t want to kill each other attempting to make it in society together. That sounds like a comedy.” They push the door open the rest of the way and heave themself outside. “Come on,” they instruct. “Today’s restock day and I’ve had my eye on a few things.”

John can’t fight the faint smile that works on his own face at the statement and he follows K out into the street. “Of course you do,” he says as K locks the door. “Let me guess, you ordered an entire truck and it’s come in?”

K laughs as they start across the street. “You’re hilarious,” they say sarcastically. “Yo--”

John snatches K back onto the sidewalk as a minivan barrels by, huffing in tired relief once his mind catches up and realizes he’s made it in time. His knuckles are white with how tight he grips the back of K’s shirt and it takes him a second to relax his fingers and release them. “Are you out of your mind?” he asks, making sure to make and hold K’s attention. “You didn’t even look before you crossed. You could have been killed.”

From the look on K’s face, they hadn’t realized what they’d done. “Whoops,” they mumble. “My bad. Thanks.”

There’s an underlying reason for the mistake, though John doubts K realizes it. He’s not even sure he realizes what it is himself, but he knows the root is buried deep and he knows he’s probably going to have to do something like this, if not the exact same thing more than once in the future. People don’t just cross roads without looking without a reason or without it being a habit. 

He makes the note to look out for more reckless habits and nods a response. “No problem.” 

K returns the nod and takes the time to actually look both ways before leading the way across the street. Once across, K pauses and flashes John a grin that screams ‘see, look, I’m fine,’ before turning and entering the bookstore. Somehow John doubts they are. 

K ends up with two and a half armfuls of books in the trip. The half arm is John’s since he somehow ended up carrying what they couldn’t. He has a suspicion it happened when he was picking up a few books of his own and he saw K struggling to carry their stack. He offered to carry some for them and trapped himself. Apparently extra arm space means extra space for extra books, be it their own arms or not. John let it happen since it didn’t impede his movements if he needed to and K promised smoothies after. 

After their hour and twenty minutes at the bookstore, the duo drop their books off at the car and make their way to the grocery store. K lets John do a majority of the decision making since K is set since it is their own house. They mainly poke around and ask John about snacks and other random food items that make it into the basket whether John says yes or not. Again, John doesn’t complain. K is paying at it is their house. They can fill it with what they want. 

The trip in the grocery store is significantly faster than the trip to the bookstore and they’re back to the car in twenty minutes. John finds himself on edge, though, and he doesn’t know the source. He helps load the groceries in the trunk, mostly on top of the book piles K has in there, and tries to ignore it. This is a small town and no one here knows he’s here, and how many assassins could be here in the first place?    
  


So why is he so on edge?

“You feel like we’re being watched?” K asks. “You look nervous.”

John smiles faintly and nods as he loads the last bag into the trunk. “That obvious?”

K snorts happily and nods. “You definitely have the air of someone who’s ready to fight,” they explain. “You look like the person who will kill a person if they look at you. Not even if they do it wrong. Just in general. I gotta say, it’s not a good look if you’re trying to blend in.” 

That’s not good. The whole point of John being here is to blend in and heal up. While he can say he’s been healing quite nicely, in the sense that he hasn’t split his stitches two days after getting them put in, and he’s enjoying the rest as much as he doesn’t want to say it. Plus, now that he believes he can begin to trust K, he’s enjoying their company. It’s not everyday he finds a person who knows him and what he can do and doesn’t ask him for anything besides holding books. It’s strange and he can’t help but feel it’s going to blow up in his face one day.

John’s pulled from his thoughts when K slams the trunk closed then smiles at him when he glares at them. “I want food,” they say. “You want food? I could go for food. And the smoothies I promised. Right? You down?”

As always, K pointedly ignores the look John is giving them and changes the subject away from it. He knows this is how their relationship is and he knows K is prone to dramatically ignoring his upset, and he rolls his eyes at the action. At least there’s no dogs for them to pointedly stare at this time and they’re forced to endure the full force of his glare. Well, not the full force since they haven’t done anything to actually anger him, but it’s enough to make any other person squirm under it. However, he knows it doesn’t make any difference since K doesn’t seem to mind it.

That in mind, John bites back a disappointed sigh and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I could eat.” 

“I figured you could,” K responds. “Wanna sit and eat or do you want to pick something up and eat at home?”

John still has the creeping feeling he and K are being watched, but he doesn’t want to let that prevent them from enjoying their day. Wait, did John just admit he’s enjoying a day? When was the last time that happened? He hasn’t had a day he didn’t feel threatened or like he needs to be lethal in a little more than a month. That doesn’t mean he isn’t deadly and he knows he can fight if he needs to. 

“We have refrigerated items,” John points out. “So we should probably get something in.”

K shrugs. “Up to you,” they say. “What are you in the mood for? We got a lot of options on the next street.” 

John can’t say he really has a preference. Since Helen died, he hasn’t had much of an appetite, and once he got pulled back into Table life, he ate what he had available. He didn’t have much of a taste for food then either and he still really doesn’t. He only really ate when he was starving or if he was running out of energy to keep going. Even then, it was scraps of whatever he could get his hands on.

Nevertheless, now that he has the option. . . 

“Is there a burger place around?” he asks. 

K smiles and shrugs. “Maybe,” they say. “I don’t eat meat, so I don’t really know about burger places. There’s a bar nearby. Really good mozzarella sticks if that tells you anything.”

John doesn’t see any correlation. “Food’s food,” he says despite the passing thought. “Does it do to go?”

“Fuck yeah it does,” K cheers, then spins dramatically on a heel and marches in back in the direction of the bookstore. “Let’s go!”

John gnaws on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from commenting on the display and follows. The trip didn’t take long, only a couple blocks, but John has to remind K to look before crossing the street each time they cross one. One would think that after the minivan incident a few hours ago, they would know how to do that. John is starting to think this kid just wants to be hit by a car. That’s not something he wants to deal with, but he supposes he has to since they’re practically allies now. A passing thought floats through his mind about buying a child-leash or something of the sort. It lingers longer than normal passing thoughts do when he has to drag them back on the sidewalk when they try to walk on a no-walk sign. 

The bar is small and the atmosphere inside is welcoming, warming, and a bit unsteady, as most bars are. The bar itself is on the wall beside the door and there’s a small stage on the wall opposite the bar. A local rock band plays in the dimly lit area despite the early hour and the small crowd is enjoying it, swaying and nodding along to the tune as a few couples have a swing around the dance floor. John almost falls into a memory of dancing with Helen, but K whoops out a greeting to the bartender before he can slip. 

Most of the patrons jump at the sudden outburst, but those who must know K return the outburst with equal enthusiasm. K glances at John with a slight apology in their eyes and makes their way over to the bar. “What’s up, Indie?” 

The bartender, who John assumes is Indie, smiles and slides a cup over to a different patron across the bar. “Hey Jerry,” he greets. “Usual?” 

John raises an eyebrow at the name as he takes a place beside K, who presses their lips together in a tight, regretting smile and shakes their head. “I’m driving,” they say. “If you could make it a to-go, it’d be great.”

Indie barks a laugh and shakes his head. “Can’t make mixed drinks to go, Jer,” he reminds. “Sorry.” After K rolls their eyes, Indie nods to John without really looking over. “Who’s this?”

K flashes a smile and leans over to rest an arm on John’s shoulder. John imagines it must look comically considering the height difference, but he lets it happen. “A family friend. He needed a place to stay for a few days, so now he’s crashing with me.” 

Indie raises an eyebrow and glances between John and K skeptically. “How come he’s staying with you?” 

“It’s nothing weird,” K interjects with a dismissive wave and a roll of the eyes. “He lived closer to me and he’s making arrangements to move soon. It’s been a terrible week for him. He’s tired.”

An understatement if John’s ever heard one, but he remains silent and nods along anyway. Indie remains skeptical. “How so?”

John feels K relax. “How come you’re so picky right now,” they retort. “What’s with the sudden interest in what happens in my life?” 

“I’m just concerned about why a grown man thinks that it was a great idea to shack up with a practical child.” 

“I’m almost twenty-six,” K says (though John is sure they’re lying, he’s just not positive), finally leaning away from John and leaning back onto the counter. “Not a child. Besides, he’s like a dad to me. Anything romantic or sexual wouldn’t even be considered. Plus, that’s nasty.” 

Indie examines John carefully and John let’s him. Despite the fact that Indie is a few inches taller than John, John knows he can take him if needed. He’s not too concerned about whatever Indie thinks about him since no one can know the real story. Let him think what he wants. 

“Can he not speak for himself?” Indie asks, addressing John without actually addressing him.    
  


“He can’t actually,” K says, sitting up and stretching their back. “He fucked up his vocal chords in the war. Chemical attack or something if I remembered what his wife told me before she died.”

John tenses at the same time Indie does. The steel behind Indie’s eyes soften and he relaxes, which confuses John into dropping his guard slightly. “Is that so?” Indie says, all previous hostility gone from his tone. “I’m sorry to hear that, man. My boyfriend died of cancer a few months ago. I know what you’re going through.” 

  
K must have known that. There’s no way they wouldn’t have. Even in these short moments of watching them interact, John can see they’re close friends. He would have told K almost as soon as his boyfriend passed away and they would have mourned with him. That fact doesn’t startle John. What startles John is how casually they brought up Helen’s death to get what they wanted. He knows it probably shouldn’t, but he never would have thought K would be that emotionally manipulative. 

Noted.

“He’s name is Ben by the way,” K throws in before that conversation could go any farther. “Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner.”   


Indie shakes his head and turns his attention back to K, blinking heavily and slowly in attempt to regain control of his emotions. John understands. He still feels like crying anytime Helen is brought up. Mourning is hard. “Don’t worry about it.” He sniffs violently and forces a grin. “What can I get for ya?”

K reaches out and lightly slaps Indie’s arm with a reassuring smile. “Ben wants a burger,” they say, retracting their arm and resting in under their chin. “And fries. To-go.”

“How do you want it?” Indie asks, turning to John and removing a notepad from his pocket. “Wait. . . You can’t talk.”

“He can sign, though,” K offers with a smile. “You know sign language, right Indie?”

From the tone K uses, John knows they’re trying to screw with him. He doesn’t know if K knows he knows sign language, but their smile and tone uses makes it seem like they’re just trying to mess with him. 

Indie nods and returns to John. “Alright, now we’re making progress. How do you want your burger?” 

John shoots K a look only K can read and moves his hands to respond.  _ Mid-rare, _ he signs.  _ All the works, please. _

K blinks as Indie scribbles down the order and John shoots them another smug look. Indie taps the pen decisively and looks back to K. “What do you want, Jer?” 

“Just mozzarella sticks,” they say, turning back to Indie and smiling broadly. “A lot of mozzarella sticks.”

Indie nods and scratches it down under John’s order. “Alright, I’ll go put your order in now. Be right back.”

John and K nod as Indie disappears through the door in the back. John shifts to turn around in his chair and watches the band play, prompting K to do the same and rests their elbows on the bar behind them. “Why Jerry?” John asks, making sure to keep his voice low enough to be lost in the music. 

K smiles lazily and shrugs. “Always liked the name Jerry,” they answer carelessly. “I have a few more names lying around, so don’t get surprised if I respond to some weird shit.”

John raises an eyebrow. “How weird is the weird shit?” 

“That would spoil the surprise.” 

John rolls his eyes and K laughs before they fall into a comfortable silence that lies under the music. K taps their tones on John’s chair as the band goes on and John lets it happen as much as he wants it to stop. They seem like they’re in a good mood, they have been for a while now, but he doesn’t want to spoil it. It’s easier when they’re content. Plus with K’s heavy mood only recently alleviated, John’s content to letting them do pretty much whatever they want in order to keep them happy. 

Well, not whatever they want. They still walk into moving traffic after all. 

It doesn’t take long for Indie to return with their food, but K yawns three times a minute the whole time. They nodded off a couple times and John had to nudge them to wake them up when Indie returns. K flashes a grateful, if exhausted, smile and pays for the food while John gathers the bags. K gives one more friendly slap to Indie’s shoulder and follows John out the door. They reach the car and K fumbles with the keys for a few seconds before John appears and takes them. ‘I’m driving,” he states. “I didn’t make it this far only to die because some stupid kid decided to fall asleep on the road.”

K rolls their eyes but surprisingly doesn’t protest, simply making their way around the car and climbing in the passenger seat. “I wouldn’t kill us.” K argues, resting their forehead against the window as John starts the car. “I know better than that. Plus I’ve been longer without sleep before. I’m not even that tired.” 

John glances over as he pulls out of the parking spot, catching the moment K’s eyes close their body relax. “Uh-huh,” John replies. “I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, late update, right? I can explain. 
> 
> First, life kicked up at work and I got super fucking busy. Then I went to my Grandma's house and spent all day everyday helping her with shit so I couldn't write for a couple weeks. Then school started again and college is stressful. So yeah! I haven't forgotten. I'll try to get back on schedule within the next few weeks but I make no promises with my schedule. 
> 
> Thanks for being patient and I hope you're living your best lives! Love you all! Keep on leaving comments and Kudos, it really helps! Keep rockin'.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you! I've been thinking of writing a fic for John Wick (heh heh heh) for a while and Chapter 3 sparked me into action. As stated in the description, this is the first of a two part series. There's not going to be a lot of violence in this part, but it's needed to establish characters and relationships and all that good shit. 
> 
> Thanks if you've made it this far. Please comment and leave Kuduos if you like this. Love you all!


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